Page 7 of The Girl in the Hockey Jersey

There area lot of rules to follow when you’re a professional athlete who likes to get naked with new friends.

Always be aware of the possibility of being recorded—especially in public.

Always be clear about boundaries. This is just one night.

Always, always, always use protection—your own, not hers.

And don’t do too many tequila shots if you want to get it up. Not that I have any concerns about my dick performing tonight. Ever since I followed Jersey Girl out of the suite, my cock has been wide awake and ready for action.

Put me in, coach.

We do two shots, a half hour apart, and finish our beers as we talk about this and that. Nothing, really, but it feels like everything. She’s curious, my not-a-hockey-fan superfan. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions, though. It’s almost like she knows that we get questions fired at us all the time. Instead, she leads the conversation in a way I’m pretty sure I’d still find clever if I was all the way sober. She tells me she likes my suit, and somehow I’m telling her about the magazine shoot. She talks about hitting Trader Joe’s tomorrow on her way home, because her home town doesn’t have one, and I’m confessing all the things I miss about living in Montreal. She says things like, “that must be hard,” and “that sounds like unexpected fun,” at just the right moment, and I’m telling her another story.

It’s clever, and excellent misdirection. As we head for the elevators, I realize I still don’t know much of anything about her, other than how fucking pretty she is, and that I love the sound of her voice.

“What floor are you on?”

She leans over and presses the button.

Two floors below my room.

I don’t press my button, though.

She smiles and steps back. I want to follow her. Press her against the wall of the elevator and take our first kiss, but there are cameras in here and I’m well trained.

As we step off the elevator, though, she brushes against me, and somehow my arm winds up around her waist. That feels so good, I don’t let go.

I’m not sure she’s going to invite me in until we’re at the door to her room. My hand is still resting on her hip, a possessive hold she doesn’t seem to mind, and she takes her time digging out her room key.

When she presses it into my free hand, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Silence swells around us as I tap it to the door. The bolt slides open, then we’re both pushing on the handle at the same time.

As soon as we’re through the door, I drop my overcoat and our matching toques in the closet, then I press her against the wall. “My safe word is avocado. You can do anything you want to me.”

She laughs, low and husky. “You’re the one pinning me to the wall, Hot Shot.”

That I am. And I’ll let her go if she isn’t all the way into it. I lean in, but not so close that I can’t read her expression. Naked desire blinks back at me. Still…booze has gotten us this far. Gotta check that we’re on the same page. “I’m going to kiss you.”

She surges against me, a little fury, and our mouths meet in the middle. She tastes like a bar mint and laughter, like mystery and unexpected fun. And she kisses like the girl next door, all tentative licks and smiles.

Small-town girl,I remind myself.Be gentle with this one.

The tequila may have been a mistake. But we were in it together, and as I explore her mouth and all the way she likes to be tasted, her tongue gets bolder.

My cock thickens with every stroke, and when she latches onto my lower lip and sucks, I peel my suit jacket off.

She takes care of my tie.

I ruck up her jersey enough to palm her ass through her leggings, then drift higher. I find bare skin at her waist, and groan so deeply she thumps her head back against the wall.

I take that opportunity to kiss her neck. Here she tastes like sugar and a sheen of winter exertion, that gloriousI’ve spent all evening cheering in a cold arena, come fuck metaste I think I won’t be able to get enough of. And her scent…

I inhale deeply, needing more of Jersey Girl imprinted on my brain. Her hair smells like flowers and something richer, something like sinful promise.

If a master artist painted us right now, me in my suit, hunched over her, licking her neck as I grope her under her hockey sweater, the painting might be called, A Good Girl Doing Bad Things.

“We should talk, before we…” she pants in my ear.

---